


The Ways We Fit Together

by portraitofemmy



Series: measure in love [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Cottage Fic, Depression, Dom/sub, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Falling In Love, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Intercrural Sex, Kink Discovery, Light Bondage, M/M, Mosaic Timeline, Quentin Coldwater is a sub, Slice of Life, can i tag for it being so fucking soft?, it's so fucking soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 09:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18588940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: The thing is: Sex is a good way to pass the time. Sex isgood,in a pure, base, animal way. It’s a thing his body wants, another bodywarmclosewettightaround him. Eliot had missed sex, in the year before Quentin kissed him on the mosaic. He’s missed solid masculine bodies for longer than that. It should be something simple, a biological function. But it’s not.It’s not because Q spread out and open for him is the most beautiful thing Eliot’s ever seen.Sex and love in the mosaic timeline.





	The Ways We Fit Together

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Как мы друг друга дополняем](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628485) by [fandom_The_Magicians_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_The_Magicians_2019/pseuds/fandom_The_Magicians_2019), [Yamanari_Tai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yamanari_Tai/pseuds/Yamanari_Tai)



> I know we’re all emotionally devastated by the finale, so I’m choosing to focus on the happily ever after they did get. This story set out to be about Eliot showing Quentin about sex, and it ended up being about Eliot falling in love. Here we are. It could loosely be considered a sequel to [A Year In The Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18363482) but you absolutely do not need to read that first. 
> 
> Special thanks to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for being my beta and my fandom buddy and allowing me to cry on her as I am wont to do.

For two people who grew up mostly in the 21st century, used to the constant stream of information and media, there’s really not much to do in Fillory.

Sure, they’ve got the mosaic. That’s literally why they’re here, after all. That occupies most of their time, but in the first year they figured out that if they didn’t take breaks occasionally, they’re going to kill each other. So they start collecting books, and they start growing plants, and start alternating time spent on the mosaic. It’s still not much, for 21st century brains, but it’s better than patterns, patterns, patterns, patterns, patterns in their sleep, Eliot can see them when he _closes his eyes now_ and yeah. They need some other things to occupy them.

Sex, in Eliot’s humble opinion, is a _great_ way to occupy your time.

__

Quentin’s distracting.

He’s always been lovely to look at, all fawn-limbed clumsiness and big wide eyes. From the moment they’d met, Eliot had wanted to corrupt him, in his dumb ill-fitted blazer and his confused expression. Those earlier blissful days, before shit really hit the fan, Quentin had been more open with Eliot than with most people and even that had been intoxicating in it’s own way. More than one night after he moved into the Physical Kid’s Cottage, Quentin had ended up passed out in Eliot’s bed, quietly desperate for a place to hide from his own fear.

Then he’d come back from the Trials following Alice Quinn around like a lost puppy, and Eliot had sighed internally and put the fantasies about introducing Q to the wide world of dick aside. He might be the kind of guy who slept with people’s boyfriends, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who ruined something good for a friend.

He thought. 

Whoops.

And Quentin had only gotten lovelier, in the year they were mostly apart. His soft hair was longer now, long enough he tied it back most of the time, except for the short strands in the front. Those he kept tucked behind his ear, a nervous habit maybe, but also serving to framing his face, accentuate his square jaw. Sometimes they’d fall free, though, hanging down in his eyes while he focused intensely on the mosaic, and Eliot’s fingers would itch to get into Quentin’s hair.

Yes. He was distracting. 

And it was even worse now because Eliot could _touch_. Somehow, for some reason, Quentin wanted him to.

Which was a problem, because Eliot was _bored_ of the mosaic, and Quentin wanted to be touched, which made it really hard to not touch him _all the time._ Even now, while Eliot’s supposedly helping with the latest design, he’s entirely distracted by Quentin’s arms. The seasons were mild in Fillory, but they were definitely in the warmer end of it now, and Q’s threadbare hoodie had been abandoned in the cottage.

“I still don’t think the beauty of all life is a red fish,” Quentin complains, like he’s not three quarters of the way through the pattern. 

“No, you’re right, it’s clearly a green fish. Take it apart,” Eliot drawls, and Quentin shoots a playful glare towards him where he’s laying on his side on the completed part of the mosaic. 

“You’re helpful.”

“I know,” Eliot sighs, eyes tracking down to the exposed skin on Q’s hip. He wants to _touch_ , but he’s being good, they really need to complete at least one pattern today. Then a wicked thought crosses his mind, and he sits up, grinning. “Let’s play truth or dare.” 

The look Quentin gives him is frankly adorable, all indignant befuddlement. “Are we _twelve?_ ”

“Yes, and we’re on a school bus on the way home from a field trip and we have _nothing to do Quentin_ , oh my god. Humor me.”

“Fine,” Q grumbles, but a smile curls on his lovely mouth despite himself, and oh hello dimples. Are we sure Quentin’s dimples aren’t the beauty of all life?

Eliot blinks, shaking _that_ particularly weird thought from his mind, and sits up straighter and crosses his legs. “You go first. Ask me.” 

“This is so dumb,” Quentin mutters, but he’s still smiling as he reaches for a red tile. “Truth or dare.”

“Dare,” Eliot says promptly, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“I dare you to help me with this puzzle.”

“Nope. It’s your turn on tile duty,” Eliot says cheerfully. “Pick another.”

Quentin sighs, squinting around like he’s searching for an idea. “I dare you– This is so dumb, El, the whole point of this game is to like... make your friends eat bugs and stuff.” 

“You’re just not being creative enough.”

“Can I dare you to stop talking?”

“Sure,” Eliot agrees, and kisses him. Q makes a lovely startled sound and it’s just a soft thing, such a gentle kiss, but Quentin’s eager for it. He always is. He goes warm and pliant as Eliot’s hand cups his neck, and he looks a little stunned when Eliot draws back. 

“Oh, so it’s that kind game,” he mutters, half accusatory, but his eyes are twinkling. Quentin really likes being kissed.

“Mhm,” Eliot agrees, stroking his thumb across the side of Quentin’s cheek, then drawing his hand back. Q looks momentarily bereft, then seems to turn back to the puzzle with some great force of will. Eliot’s flattered. It really is something, how much Q _wants_ him. 

“Your turn.”

“Truth or dare,” Eliot asks, and he knows what Q’s going to say before he says it, predictable little nerd.

“Truth.”

Oh, sweet, naive boy. You think this is the easy path? “What was your first time like?”

Quentin blushes, fumbling the tile in his hand so it clattered down onto the mosaic. “Jesus, El.”

“Answer the question, Coldwater,” Eliot teases, and he loves making Q squirm, he has _always_ loved making Q squirm. 

“First time with a girl or with a guy?” Quentin askes, voice quiet, and determinedly looking at the tiles he’s laying. 

Eliot blinkes, genuinely surprised. “I assumed I was there for the first time with a guy.”

“Well, that’s because you’re an egotist,” Quentin returns lightly.

“Hedonist,” Eliot correctes, automatically. Curiosity peaked, he nudges Q with his foot. “My apologies, I shouldn’t make assumptions.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Q agrees, but the look he gives Eliot is still warm and a little embarrassed, so he can only hope that he didn’t step in it too badly. “Both were a disaster, honestly. First girlfriend, definitely didn’t make her come, she broke up with me the next day. Guy at a party in college, barely remember it but I gave him a handjob and he fell asleep. Jerked off in the bathroom and then went home.”

“You lead a life of sweeping romance,” Eliot says, ignoring the way his heart aches a little. _It should have been better for you,_ he thinks. 

“What about you?” Quentin asks, and he sounds like he’s trying so hard to not sound curious.

“That’s not how the game works,” Eliot points out, teasing, delighted, as Q huffs at him.

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“You’re an asshole,” Quentin grumbles, and Eliot wants to touch, wants to touch, wants to _touch_. “I dare you to fuck me.”

“Well, alright, if you insisted,” Eliot agrees, reaching forward to hook his fingers into Quentin’s belt loops, pulling him over. Quentin starts to squirm, but does not, actually, try to get away from Eliot’s grasp. He ends up tucked against Eliot’s chest, his lovely compact little body in Eliot’s arms, ass snug against Eliot’s hips. _Where he belongs,_ supplies the animal part of Eliot’s brain, and he tucks his nose against the back of Quentin’s neck.

“Eliot! Jesus, I was kidding. I’m in the middle of something!”

“You should know better than to play gay chicken with me,” Eliot points out, and let’s Q twist around in his arms. He watches the smile bloom on Quentin’s face, and has to taste it. Quentin lets him, because Quentin _really likes_ being kissed. 

“We can’t do this right now, I have to finish this pattern,” Quentin reminds him, clambering out of Eliot’s lap and going back to his stack of tiles. He’s gratifyingly flustered though, and Eliot can hear him mutter under his breath, “Maybe after.”

Eliot laughs, and lets himself tip over onto his back. He can wait. 

He dozes, a little, but Q wakes him up to put the last tile down. They always put the last tile down together, just in case. It’s one of the pastel green ones, this time, and he rests his hand on Q’s back as he slots it into place. Nothing happens.

Quentin sighs, and Eliot rubs his back in sympathy, warm through the soft thin material of his T-shirt. “I told you it wasn’t a red fish,” Quentin says gloomily.

“I know, baby.” He presses a kiss to Quentin’s temple, feels the shift in Q’s body weight as he leans into Eliot more fully. And well, Eliot is a man of his word.

He takes Q apart slowly, because he can, because there’s absolutely no reason not too. It’s late in the day, late enough that no visitors from the local village are likely to wander through, so he can press Quentin back onto the failed mosaic pattern and kiss him until he’s shivery and desperate. And the thing is–

The thing is. Sex is a good way to pass the time. Sex is _good,_ in a pure, base, animal way. It’s a thing his body wants, another body _warmclosewettight_ around him. Eliot had missed sex, in the year before Quentin kissed him on the mosaic. He’s missed solid masculine bodies for longer than that. It should be something simple, a biological function. But it’s not. 

It’s not because Q spread out and open for him is the most beautiful thing Eliot’s ever seen. Quentin, who doesn’t have a lot of experience with sex, throws himself into it with utter abandon. He _loves_ being kissed, and he loves it when Eliot tugs on his hair or squeezes his neck just so, and he loves getting fucked. And there’s something about the way he looks at Eliot with those big warm eyes so full of trust that’s just–

It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. 

He lets Eliot lick him open, giving soft, needy little sounds to the night as he rides back on it. Lovely, sweet Quentin lets Eliot take his time, fitting in one finger in at time and stretching him, until he’s squirming and begging. And then he lets Eliot fuck him, face down and ass up on the mosaic, and Eliot can’t stop staring at the dark black ink of his tattoo. Can’t stop thinking _Q, Q, Q, Q_ like a revelation, like an awakening, like a prayer. 

They tumble into a pile of sweaty sticky limbs after. Quentin is his usual shivery self, soft and vulnerable, open and raw, and Eliot holds him and shields him and can’t stop dancing his fingers over the skin on his tattoo. 

“That was new,” Quentin muttered, and at Eliot’s soft noise of inquiry, elaborates. “We haven’t done it like that before.”

That was true, Eliot supposed. Half the time when they fucked, it never got this far at all. Sometimes it was Eliot’s cock slipping into the warm, delicious heat of Quentin’s mouth, watching the way he got blissed out on it. Other times it was just hands, or grinding together, when they got so caught up in each other that having to stop kissing long enough for more than that sounded like a death sentence. 

But when they fucked, it was face to face. Eliot, well. Eliot _liked_ seeing Quentin’s face. Liked gauging his reactions by his open expressions. He liked how Q felt under him, in his lap riding him, small perfect compact little body yielding, giving, _taking_. He loved watching Q’s startled pleasure, the way he never seemed able to believe that he could feel _so much_.

“Good new?” Eliot askes, because empirical data is important, and also Eliot’s starting to get the sense they should start getting comfortable talking about the sex they’re having. He’s been around enough to know that some of the stuff it seems like Q might like requires heavy lifting on the communication front. 

“Mmm, yeah.” Q murmurs. Nuzzles in. Tilts his face up, asking for a kiss. Eliot smiles and indulges him. Rubs their noses together after because he feels like his heart might burst. “I don’t think I’d do it this way every time. I like being able to see you. But we had been winding each other up for a while.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Eliot purrs and kisses him. Pets his hair. Holds him close. “There’s so many ways we can be together, baby. I can’t wait to show you.”

__

They try to get at least one pattern done a day. It is why they’re here, after all.

The summer rains make it challenging though. The first year, they’d been worried what a winter in Filloy might be like, but it had largely just been dark and cold. There’d only been one snow fall to speak of, and even that had been light enough that they’d been able to sweep it off the mosaic and get a pattern down, before retreating into the warmth of the cottage.

The summer rains were worse. This year, on the advice of the cobbler in the village, they’d paid the miller’s boy to rethatch their roof, so at least the cottage was mostly dry. 

It still makes working on the puzzle difficult, when the rain is coming down so hard you can barely see through it and the clouds are so dark that midday seemed like dusk. At least the rains are warm while they soaked you through to the bone.

 _It’s like having a shower_ , Eliot reminds himself, like it hasn’t been over a year since he’s had a proper shower. He’s been out working on the mosaic for a few hours at this point, and today’s pattern (a radial sun, bisected by green lines) is about three quarters of the way done. Then the thunder starts. He jumps, a little, with every flash of lighting. Habit born out of childhood fears compels him to count the seconds between the flash and the concussive force of the thunder.

It’s getting shorter.

A particularly bright flash, followed a hair’s breadth later by crashing thunder he could feel resonate in his chest, and the cottage door opens. Q’s worried face pokes out into the rain, back lit by the interior of the cottage.

“Eliot! Get in here before you get hit by lightning!”

Didn’t have to tell him twice. Soaked to his bones and more than a little rattled, Eliot makes a dash for the door. 

The interior of the cottage is warm and dry, despite all odds. Quentin has a small cooking fire lit in the hearth, and on the metal shelf above the fire sits Q’s latest attempt at bread, baking away. Everything smells yeasty and smokey and welcoming. _Like home_ , he thinks with a sharp pang in his chest, and turns to find Quentin at his side, offering him a knitted blanket to dry off with. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, a little stunned by the intensity of the feeling suck in his chest. It only intensifies when Q smiles, tilts his face up for a kiss. Eliot gives it, soft and brief because he’s soaking wet and Quentin isn’t. “How’s the baking going?”

“You’re better at it,” Quentin says, resigned, which was definitely true. Quentin’s cooking was improving out of necessity, but he still burned something at least once a week. 

“Well, tomorrow you can stand out in the rain, and I’ll have a lovely meal waiting for you on the table when you get home,” Eliot simpered sarcastically, staunchly ignoring how much he _liked_ cooking for Q as he toweled off his hair. 

Another person, any of the number of guys Eliot had dated who weren’t Quentin, might have made a joke about Eliot being a good little housewife. Eliot was half making the joke himself. But that wasn’t Quentin, who’d only ever been slightly in awe of Eliot’s dandiness, his culture and flare. Never mocked him for it. Instead he curls fingers into the sides of Eliot’s wet shirt and goes up on his toes for another soft kiss. “Sounds fair,” he agrees, and then tugs a little at Eliot’s shirt. “You should get out of these wet clothes.”

“If you wanted me naked, Coldwater, you should’ve just said so,” Eliot teases, just to watch Quentin’s eyes sparkle, his dimples appear. 

“I always want you naked,” he says, a soft thing because of the truth of it, and Eliot feels the familiar prickle of fear at the raw affection in Quentin’s eyes. What is he supposed to do when someone who should be able to have anyone he wants is looking at _Eliot_ like that.

He forces a laugh and turns away, hiding a little just to catch his damn _breath_ for a minute. He retreats into the bedroom, and Q lets him, heading towards the hearth to check his bread. They’ve been forced out of necessity to trade magical work for some fillorian clothes, and while Eliot mostly wears his Earth clothes out of habit or stubbornness, he does have some other things to change into. Light cotton shirt and loose pants, and he debates a sweater for a moment, but decides that the chill from the rain won’t last in the warmth of the cottage.

Quentin’s sprawled on the sitting bench by the fire when Eliot emerges, feet propped up on one of the chairs from their ricketty bartered-for tablet set. He’s got a book open on his stomach, but he looks up to smile at Eliot. 

“What are you reading?” Eliot asks, grabbing their folded quilt to cushion his work-sore back before collapsing into the empty space on the bench. He holds his arms out in invitation, but Quentin’s already moving, crawling his way into the space between Eliot’s legs to curl up in his arms. 

“The Sea Voyages of Elward Blagdan,” Quentin says, and there’s a note of eagerness in his voice which makes Eliot smile. Q, bless his nerdy little heart, _loves_ boat quests. 

“What an unfortunate name,” Eliot muses, because he’s _Eliot_.

“You’re an unfortunate name,” Quentin retorts, because he’s _Quentin_.

“So what’s happening on this sea voyage, then?” Eliot prompts, and happily passes the few hours with his cheek against Quentin’s hair, listening to his lovely voice and the dull steady drum of the rain. Q warm little body fits perfectly in his arms, exactly the right height to lay his head back on Eliot’s shoulder while he reads. They fit together _so well_ , it was insane how well they fit together. Two matching commas, nestled in. Everything smells of wood smoke and fresh bread and _Quentin_. 

_Home_ , shudders Eliot's heart, and fear spikes after. _This is more home than anything has ever been, oh god, what happens when I_ lose _this_. 

He starts kissing the side of Quentin’s neck to distract himself, because sex can be a very good distraction. It’s an excellent distraction, the way Quentin starts to squirm a little, as Eliot trails his lips along the sensitive skin on the back of Q’s neck. _He likes this_ , Eliot marvels, and it’s still so wonderful in the truest sense of the word, to be wanted by Q. Carefully, Eliot gather’s Q’s hair in his hand, pushing it off to the side so can kiss to the soft sweet skin behind is ear.

“E-Eliot,” Quentin stutters out, voice a little strangled, and Eliot nuzzles his ear a little.

Says, every so quietly, against the shell of it, “Yeah, baby?”

“It’s the middle of the day,” Q points out, which was not quite true, and also hilarious because it’s not like they haven’t fucked in the middle of the day before. They fucked in the middle of the day _yesterday_ , when Q had said he needed a break from the mosaic and proceeded to suck Eliot’s brain out through his dick. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Eliot asks, carefully stopping his hands which had been petting at Q’s stomach through his increasingly threadbare tshirt. 

“I didn’t say that,” Quentin pants, and Eliot laughs, gentles it with another brush of lips against the shell of Q’s ear. It sends shivers through Quentin’s body, Eliot can feel it where they’re all tucked in tight, and lord help him but if he isn’t getting turned on by turning Q on. Q, who’s starting to twist in Eliot’s arms like he’s going to turn around and clamber up into Eliot’s lap and kiss him, and Eliot... isn’t done playing yet.

“No, baby,” he says gently, sliding his arms around Q’s torso in a solid hug. Quentin lets himself be stopped, sinks back into Eliot’s chest, curious and trusting. “You feel so nice like this, I want to show you– Trust me?”

“Yes,” Quentin agrees, immediately. The weight of that trust, _oh lord._

“Thank you,” Eliot murmurs, and feels raw with how much he means it. Gently, he brushes his lips against the shell of Q’s ear, nuzzles at it, flicks his togue out against it. Takes the lobe in his mouth gently to suck at it.

Quentin makes a strangled, one of his hands scrabbling up to grip Eliot’s, the other flailing out to grab onto the bench. “Why, why does that feel so _good?_ ”

Something inside Eliot’s chest _purrs_ at that. “There’s all kinds of places on your body that aren’t used to being touched.”

“ _Touch me, please,_ ” Quentin begs, and who’s Eliot to denying something asked so nicely.

They wriggle Q most of the way out of his clothing, shirt over his head and pants rucked down to his knees, and then Eliot can pet him all over. He’s practically desperate to be kissed, twisting and begging with his big beautiful eyes, and it’s only a matter of time before Eliot gives into that. He’s only a _man_ , after all, and a weak willed one at that. 

It’s an awkward angle to kiss at, and it’s purely an accident that Eliot’s hand ends up cupping Q’s throat. He’d brought it up to tip Quentin’s chin to a better angle, and meant to smooth his palm down Q’s throat to his chest after. Except the moment Eliot’s hand was resting against the tender, exposed stretch of Quentin’s neck, his whole body shuddered and went pliant. 

And Eliot. Eliot’s not _surprised_ , is the thing. Every discovery about sex with Q has been a logical march towards an obvious conclusion, how much this lovely, scared, fragile boy wants to be cared for. Wants to feel safe and contained. And Eliot... Eliot can do that for him. Has at least some idea how.

So he cups his hand with purpose around Quentin’s tender throat, and asks “Is this alright?” because safe, sane and consensual is key.

“Eliot, if you stop, I’m going to kill you and leave your corpse for the talking bears.”

Which. Eliot laughs, and laughs, and holds Q close and kisses his face, because it’s so ridiculous and he’s so dear. He strokes his thumb with purpose against the side of Quentin’s neck and feels him shudder, and. Eliot’s hard, against the small of Quentin’s back, and it’s so tempting to be distracted by that, but Quentin’s so responsive and–

“Kiss me, please,” Quentin’s asking, and. What is Eliot supposed to do, besides give him absolutely everything? 

Everything in Quentin is unmaking, right there before his eyes. Q’s cock is hard and leaking against his stomach, and when Eliot slides his left hand down to rub it, clumsy, the sound Q makes is. Indescribable. Eliot wants to _crawl_ inside him. _I need to be inside him_ , Eliot thinks, desperate, selfish, but. 

Quentin seems shattered and broken already, ripped inside out by Eliot’s hands on his throat, and Eliot. Eliot doesn’t want to _hurt_ him, not when he’s like this. So blown open, incandescent, so clearly, clearly gone. But maybe– 

“Trust me, baby?” Eliot asks, and when Q nods, dazed, Eliot lets him go.

The sound Q makes is so mournful, Eliot would laugh, if he had the brain power to do anything other than gently sit Q forward and then wiggle out of his own loose pants. Then he can pull Q back, tuck him back, into the curve of him, that beautiful compact little frame fitting just, just, _just_ right for Eliot to slide his dick in between Q’s velvety soft thighs. Wrap his arms around him. Cup his tender throat and hold him and _fuck into him_.

“ _El,_ ” Quentin sobs, and he sounds shattered. “Why does that _feels so good?_ ”

 _Because you’re mine_ , supplies Eliot’s unhelpful animal brain. 

It lasts. It lasts. It _lasts_ , for about as long as it can, for some of the best sex of _Eliot’s whole life_. It lasts until Eliot’s grip on his own pleasure reaches the end of its tether, and then he’s spilling against Q’s thighs. It lasts until he fits his clumsy left hand over Quentin’s cock, and whispers in his ear “Baby, you’ve been so good for me, it’s okay,” and Q _loses_ it. 

The sitting bench is _not_ a comfortable place for an afterglow, and Eliot definitely needs to cuddle the shit out of Quentin right now, so there’s an awkward process of getting them up and into the bed. Quentin is loose limbed and stumbly, and Eliot’s heart aches at the concept of losing even a moment of skin on skin contact, but he manages it. Eliot helps sheds the rest of their clothes, and gently gathers Q’s hair back from his face, carefully ties it up. Then he gets them onto the bed and wraps them up in their quilt and gets Q in his arms and it’s... Perfect. It’s perfect. 

_You are my most perfect thing_ , he thinks brushing his nose against Q’s, kissing him softly, and again and again. Never has he felt so protective, and never has he felt so afraid. 

“Hey,” Q says eventually, and the next kiss he meets with a little more attention.

“Hey,” Eliot repeats, and his scared rabbit-heart turns over when Q smiles. _Dimples_. Fuck. “How are you feeling.”

“Like I did a bunch of Josh’s weird mushrooms and then had sex on a bench,” Q says thoughtfully, stretching. “Is all the sex you have this good? Like, have I just been doing it wrong my whole life?”

 _It’s never this good_ , Eliot thinks. Doesn’t say. Pets Q’s hair instead. “Need anything?” he asks, brushes his thumb against Q’s ear. Watches him think, seriously, then shake his head. 

Pause. Smile. “A kiss?” he asks, smirking like he thinks he’s clever. 

Eliot indulges him. 

__

The rains end in late summer, and everything feels heavy and sluggish and drawn out, this last couple weeks before the harvest. The orchards on the way to the village are overflowing with ripe fruit, and Arielle and Lunk come through almost every day with peaches and plums for trade. The cottage smells sweetly of fruit, overflowing in bowls on the table.

Quentin, the city boy, has decided to make jam. Which means that Eliot is making jam, and walking him through the process. They trade mending work for some honey, Quentin’s clever fingers fixing the broken edge of a beehive damaged in the rains. Eliot flirts with a traveling glassware salesman, and gets them a handful of jars for only two of their precious few coins. 

They take time at the end of the day to bring their table out of the cottage, and sit in the late summer sun, cutting and peeling peaches, tossing them with a dull thunk into the dented iron pot. They’d failed two patterns today, and Eliot can’t even bring himself to feel bad about it, not when the air smells so clean and he has peach juice running through his fingers.

“Do you think we can trade some jam for butter?” Quentin asks, and he’s been so excited about this whole process, he’s actually managed to quell some of the dread Eliot usually feels about farm-related things. 

Honestly, the fact that Quentin’s so excited about this is most of the reason Eliot’s going along with it. He’d be willing to go along with pretty much anything Q got excited about, after the last week or so. 

Nothing, _nothing_ , made Eliot feel more helpless than when Quentin’s brain started eating him alive. Even after over a year and a half of living in each other other’s pockets, he still wasn’t entirely sure what to _do_. Half the time it seemed like all Q needed from him was his presence, the reassurance that he wasn’t going to abandon Quentin to this undoable task or send him away. Other times he really needed to be bullied into eating and bathing and taking care of himself. It was _hard_ , and frustrating at times, and everything in Eliot was screaming at him to _protect_ Q from this. But how did you protect someone from their own brain chemistry? 

You didn’t. So you learned to be patient. And when the smell of fresh peaches is the only thing making the person that– that you’re caring for want to get out of bed, you bought a whole basket. And when he wants to make jam, you figure out a way to do it without processed sugar or gelatin. 

“Old Astral’s too snobby to trade,” Eliot points out, carefully popping the pit of his peach out, watching Q doing the same. He looks better. Less drawn and pale, and doesn’t look in danger of losing any more weight. He’s peach slices are sloppy and uneven, but he looks cheerful. Maybe not smiling as easy as he had been, in the weeks they were trapped inside through the rains. But better. 

“Maybe we can sell it to someone else and _buy_ butter from Old Astral,” Quentin says thoughtfully, then gives Eliot a sheepish look, and admits, “I want toast.”

 _Then you’ll have toast_ , Eliot thinks. Which is just.... Dumb. He can’t bully their village neighbors into being nice any more than he can fix Q’s depression. But... “I heard the miller saying his daughter got a goat recently. Maybe we can trade with her.”

“I’ve never had goat butter,” Quentin admits, then laughs ruefully. “Do you ever take step back and think about how weird these conversations would sound to anyone on Earth?”

Eliot gives him a look. “I was a High King, and had conversations with the interpreter for a talking sloth. The weirdest part of this conversation should be that I’m morally obligated to ask if the goat consented to having her milk taken.”

Q snickers, smile pushing onto his face and Eliot missed this, he _missed this_. Fuck this disease which robbed him of his best friend every couple of months or so. 

“I’m sure the goat consented,” Quentin says seriously, dumping a handful of peach slices into the pot, then slipping one into his mouth with a mischievous glance at Eliot. 

Eliot, delighted, bites. “Hey, save those for the jam, mister!”

“I think we’ll have enough,” Quentin says sagely, then reaches over and steals a slice of the peach Eliot’s been cutting, laughing bright and sweet and open when Eliot swats at his hand ineffectively. Eliot’s helpless heart turns over, and for the space a few breaths he can’t look away from the smile lines around Q’s eyes, his adorable dimples. 

Fuck. _I missed you._

Another flashes of Quentin’s hands, and Eliot’s about to call him on it again, except Q’s leaning on the table, holding the slice of peach towards Eliot’s mouth and– Part of Eliot wants to laugh, because it’s so obvious Q thinks he’s being sexy, and it’s hilarious how awkward Quentin is when he’s _trying_ to be sexy. But a much bigger part of him is just so charmed by the attempt that it actually ends up working. Kind of.

He leans forwards and takes the fruit from Quentin’s fingers, letting the sweet taste burst over his tongue. He raise an eyebrow at Quentin, and deliberately brushes his lips against Q’s fingers in a kiss. Quentin swallows, and Eliot sits back, feeling oddly satisfied. 

“C’mon, we need to get these done if we’re going to let them stew overnight.”

They finish slicing the basket of peaches before the sun has finished going down, and Quentin drags the table inside while Eliot tuts the hearth fire to life. He spares a moment to think longingly of finely controllable gas burners, then goes to help Q with the chairs. 

Under Eliot’s careful instruction, Quentin tips half their pot of precious honey into the saucepan, then adds fresh water from the stream until the fruit is just barely submerged. 

“Now we wait, and stir occasionally,” Eliot says with a sigh, opening his arm comfortably when Quentin leans into his side. He’s a warm, solid weight, and he makes a happy little noise, moving in for a proper hug. Eliot is reminded all over again just how perfectly Quentin fits into his arms, against his chest, perfect little frame tucked in just right against him. It’s been days since they’ve shared more than a passing peck, which shouldn’t feel like a long time, and yet... When Q goes up on his toes, brushing their noses together and clearly asking to be kissed, Eliot’s _hungry_ for him.

They nearly let the jam burn. 

They don’t, just, but Eliot’s face is tingling with beard burn from Q’s scruff, and he can now add ‘jarred peach compote while having an erection’ to the list of fucking _weird_ things he’s done in his life. Jars safely boiling away in a water bath, Eliot gives in and tugs Quentin to bed.

Quentin’s skin in the candle light is... golden and smooth and perfect. Eliot wants to taste all of him, bites his sweet soft neck and the curve of his bicep and the tiny beads of his nipples. Takes his mouth and kisses him exactly the way Q likes to be kissed, deep and dirty and slow. They fuck face to face in the candlelight, breath mingling and every single one of Q’s soft helpless sounds is like a balm on Eliot’s achy heart. _Mine,_ he thinks, desperate, and comes inside him. 

The afterglow is fucking phenomenal, too, all pleasantly sticky in the way Eliot’s starting to admit he really likes. He gets to lay blanketing Q’s body, ear to his chest, listening to the sound of his racing heart slowing down. Quentin’s fingers are twirling around one of Eliot’s curls, absently, and Eliot feels... ridiculously cared for and wanted. 

A thought strikes him, and he leverages himself up so he can see Quentin’s face a little more clearly. His eyes are closed, nearly half asleep, though his fingers are still playing in Eliot’s hair. “Hey,” he says, softly, and watches Q’s eyes flicker open, watches his smile curl on his lips.

“Hey yourself,” Quentin replies, and tugs on one of Eliot’s curls lightly.

“Do you want to top sometime?” Eliot asks, and watches the couple of seconds it takes for Q’s sleepy brain to process his words. Adorable.

“Um. I don’t think I could go again right now,” He deflects, and Eliot rolls his eyes. 

“You’re young, I have faith in you.” Quentin snorts and Eliot leans up to kiss him, to calm his racing brain. “You know that’s not what I meant, though.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, and he looks a little embarrassed, but also thoughtful. “I don’t know. Do you want me too?”

Eliot, until recently, had always considered himself a switch. Life was too short to deny yourself the pleasure of a really good dicking. Sure, he tended to be a little pushy, and what some might refer to as a _bossy fucking bottom_ when he was taking it, but he still enjoyed it. With Quentin, he thought he might enjoy it a whole hell of a lot. 

“I want to do everything we can do together,” Eliot admits, and feels tender, raw with it. “I want every way we fit together, baby.”

“Oh,” Q mutters, looking flushed and pleased. “I mean. Yes? I think I’d probably like that?”

“Then we’ll try it sometime.”

“Okay,” Quentin agrees, and he looks a little nervous, but also a little excited, so Eliot can work with that.

Except it wasn’t... quite that easy.

It was maybe, shockingly, the first thing between them that _wasn’t_ easy. 

Two days later, and they’ve returned inside at midday to hide from the smothering late summer heat. These hours in the middle of the day to where it was too hot to function had become some of Eliot’s favorites. It was an excuse to indulge in a little hedonism, in the middle of their quest-focused lives. Take a couple hours, drink some cool clean water, indulge in the sweetness of a plum or two, read a little while lying around naked, have some sweaty and playful sex... what more could you want?

Except something is _off_ , from the moment Quentin backes him up against the table and kisses him. There is a restless energy to Q, like he can’t figure out what to do with his hands or how to fit inside his own body. Even Eliot’s hand sliding through his hair, settling on the back of his neck doesn’t seem to do a lot to calm him down. 

“Hey,” Eliot whispers, breaking away, wincing a little as Quentin’s tooth snags his lip. “Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”

“What? Yeah,” Quentin responds, distracted, and then- all nervous bouncy energy: “Hey, so, I can f-fuck you. If you want. Um, we could. Try that?”

“Oh,” is Eliot’s intelligent reply, which might not have been the _worst_ thing he could have said, but was pretty high up there. Quentin’s expression stutters, that shutter slam of insecurity, and Eliot tugs on his hair light, rushing to say, “I mean, yes. Yes, I want that. God, baby, your cock in me? Of _course_ I want that.”

Which does seem to help, a little. At least when they kiss again, there’s hunger and heat to it, as well as all that nervous energy. They tumble their way into the bedroom, and there’s a handful of glorious, wonderful minutes of kissing where Quentin forgets to be nervous. He just perches on Eliot’s hips and they kiss and kiss and _kiss_ and it’s _so good_. Eliot’s getting worked up about it, it’s been so long since he got fucked and Q’s gonna fit so nicely inside him. Those perfect little hips cradled between his thighs, Eliot can’t _wait._

Then Eliot pushes him up to strip them of their shirts and Quentin seems to remember what he’s doing and it all goes to shit again. As awkward as he is in every other aspect of his life, Q has never been this awkward during sex. He keeps getting halfway through a move and then second guessing himself, stuttering out halfway through. He looks so confusedly miserable by the time he begins the familiar motions of Eliot’s favorite sex magic, he literally falters out in the middle of the spell.

“Okay, stop,” Eliot sighs, pushing Quentin gently off him by the hips. Q, who’s looking a little panicky and lost, let’s himself be moved. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, I’ve done this spell before. It should work,” he mutters, and his hands are restless, picking at the quilt, scratching lightly at his own arms. Eliot wants to reach out and hold him still, force him to calm down, but he’s not actually sure that would help right now.

“That’s not what I mean,” Eliot says carefully, brushing his fingers against Q’s arm. Quentin flinches from the touch, instinctively, and Eliot’s heart sinks. “You’re not acting like yourself.” 

“ _Really_ , Eliot?! Who am I acting like? Because this is the most like myself I have _ever_ felt while having sex with you. Meaning, _a complete disaster._ ” 

Eliot... has no response ready for that. He’s left sitting on the bed, gaping like a fish, while Quentin gathers up his pants and storms out of the cottage. Shit. _Fuck._ The clink of mosaic tiles becomes audible not long after that, and Eliot sighs. Well, at least he hasn’t gone far. If Quentin needs space... Eliot can give him that.

By the time Quentin comes back in from the mosaic, it’s sunset and Eliot’s circled through embarrassment, anger, concern and landed on amusement. Q looks a little sheepish, shoulders hunched and head ducked, hair hanging in his face, when he comes in through the cottage door. He looks so small, and suddenly Eliot doesn’t want to make him talk about it. Not right now. They’ll talk about it eventually, but right now Q’s looking a little scared of him, and that’s not something Eliot has the stomach for.

“I made a frittata,” Eliot says, gesturing to where their one good pan is sitting on the metal wrack over the fire. “We’re out of eggs now, so. It’s time to trade soon.”

“Maybe we should buy a chicken,” Quentin says, like he’s got any idea what owning a chicken actually _involves_. City boys, honestly. 

Q steps away from the door, and Eliot holds an arm out to him in wordless offer, thinking _please, baby boy, please just let me make it okay_. He expects Quentin to tuck himself into Eliot’s side, but instead he wraps his whole damn self around Eliot, and that’s. Yeah, okay. Eliot will take that. Quentin’s hair smells like fresh air and a little like sweat and mostly like Q and Eliot just holds on to him. The fear that’s been gripping him for hours, that _you fucked up and now you’re going to_ lose _this, and you won’t survive it_ that’s been crushing his heart starts to easy, slowly.

So they eat dinner, and they don’t talk about it, and Q retreats to bed early that night. Eliot expects him to be feigning sleep when he finally heads into the tiny little room which houses their pallet, but he’s not. He’s just lying on top of the quilt on Eliot’s side of the bed, which is a pretty clear indicator of ‘I need you to pay attention to me.’

So Eliot climbs right on top of him, because that’s what he does. It makes Q laugh, his dimples springing to life, and Eliot kisses his cheek because Quentin’s dimples might be his favorite thing in all of Fillory. 

“So I freaked out,” Quentin says, while Eliot settles down half on top of him.

“You totally did,” Eliot agrees. Q’s starting to look a little sheepish again, turtle in on himself, and that’s the last thing Eliot wants. His fingers find Quentin’s hair, smooth through the soft strands until the repetitive motion starts to soothe Q’s nerves. “Do you know why?”

Quentin shrugs, eyes flicking around the candle lit room, until they land on Eliot’s. “I got caught up in my head, I guess. Couldn’t focus.”

“Why?” Eliot asks, confused, because of all firsts they’d had together, this seems, well. Tame. “I mean, why is this different than anything else we’ve done?”

“Because there’s more pressure? I mean, it’s on me to make it good, right?”

 _Oh._ “Baby,” Eliot says, and he’s gotta work really hard to keep the laughter out of his voice, still isn’t sure he succeeds. “I don’t care what our dicks are doing. If you think that whatever we do together isn’t gonna be me _fucking you stupid_ , then you’re not paying attention.”

It’s amusing, almost, how Q’s eyes go hot and dark and hungry at that. It would be, except it makes Eliot’s stomach clench, makes longing crash over him in a heady wave.

“Oh,” Quentin whispers, and his eyes are glued to Eliot’s mouth, which. Yeah, okay. Eliot can do this. 

“Kiss me,” he whispers, and Quentin does. And it’s so much better, it really is, than their awkward fumbling earlier that day. He puts Q exactly where he wants him, kisses him exactly how he wants to, feels Quentin utterly melt in his arms. 

Eliot can do bossy. He can to entitled, he can do arrogant, he can do High King Boss Bitch when he needs to. It’s just another piece of the armor. For his entire life, his _entire life_ , Eliot has cultivated a certain image and then looked people in the eye and dared them to make assumptions about him. He has it in him to order even the pushiest top around, if he wants to. 

Quentin isn’t pushy, and Eliot has no armor left against him.

It’s intoxicating, the way Quentin drinks up instruction and praise. Eliot walks him through stripping them both of their clothes, then rolls them over, so he’s on his back with Q tucked in all sweet and tight between his thighs just like he’s been wanting. 

“No magic,” Eliot instructs, just because Quentin’s started the tut already, and Eliot’s feeling contrary. With the way Quentin’s eyes go dark and glassy, Eliot feels vindicated. Oh, sweet baby boy. “Only what I tell you, remember?”

“Sorry,” Q whispers, face open and watching Eliot with those beautiful dark eyes. 

“I know you are, baby,” Eliot agrees, brushes his cheek, watches with a helpless heart as Q nuzzles into his hand. Almost thoughtlessly, Eliot brushes his fingers against Q’s lips, touching where he’s kiss-bitten red, and _oh_ Quentin’s lips part for him. The soft heat of his mouth is like velvet when Eliot slides to fingers in, watching in awe as Q’s posture goes soft like he was just waiting to get something on his tongue. _Jesus_ , Eliot can’t _handle_ how fucking much Q wants him. 

“You’re distracting me,” he accuses gently, sliding his fingers out of Q’s mouth and using them to tip up his chin. “You’re supposed to be fucking me and you’re sitting here like you want nothing more than to swallow my cock.”

“I like swallowing you cock,” Quentin pouts, a little, and _high holy fuck_ does Eliot love when he can push Q to the point where he stops feeling any shame at all. 

“You’ll like this too,” he promises, and then kisses Q, because he wants to. Because _he likes it_.

It has been a while, years really, since Eliot’s been fucked. As much as he wants to rush through the prep, trust his body’s muscle memory and get Quentin _in him now_ , he makes himself draw it out. It’ll be better, he knows, if they take their time with this, and well. He wants to teach Q how to do this right. Call it an investment in the future. 

“How does it feel?” he asks, because Quentin’s watching his own fingers disappear inside Eliot’s body with a broken open, needy look that’s just so delicious. He’s still hard, Eliot can see, that sweet line of his cock solid and achy looking, turned on from _this_. From opening Eliot up and acting on his instruction.

“Tight,” Quentin breaths out, eyes dancing from his fingers up to Eliot’s face. “I don’t want to hurt you, El.”

“You’re not hurting me, baby,” Eliot murmurs, and it’s true. It just feels deliciously full and good, sparks shooting up his spine as Quentin’s strong fingers work inside of him, perfect. “You’re making me feel so good.”

Quentin makes a broken sound, folding over to press his hot face into Eliot’s chest. Flooded with tenderness, protectiveness, Eliot is suddenly done with taking it slow. He needs Quentin inside him now, needs all the space between them gone.

The first stretch of Quentin slide into him is so good, Eliot’s spine arches on instinct. Q, careful Q, sweet, kind, anxious Q is practically shaking above him, eyes fixed on Eliot’s face with the clear question written there: _am I doing it right? Do you like it?_

“So good, sweetheart,” Eliot pants out, because it’s all the words he can find, rolling his hips back because it is. It’s so good.

“ _El,_ ” Quention sobs, and he’s matching Eliot’s rhythm on instinct. They’ve fucked enough that this part needs no instruction. Their bodies know each other. Their bodies know what to do. 

Q holds on longer than Eliot expects, honestly. Long enough that Eliot’s whole body has started to burn with it, that he’s got his hand on his cock chasing his own release. But Quentin’s soft little sex noises have started to go pained and needy, and Eliot can tell, can just tell, how little control he’s got left. “It’s okay,” Eliot pants, getting his hand up to the back of Q’s neck and holding him tight. “It’s okay, Q, let go.”

He does. It’s beautiful.

“Want to,” Quentin’s mumble, the moment he’s got his breath back. “Wanna make you come.”

His eyes are wide, beautiful, staring at Eliot in the near darkness. He’s so lovely, so lovely, Eliot would kill or die to make him happy. He reaches forward, presses his fingers to point of Q’s jaw, watches his mouth fall open, easy. “Then make me come. You know this part.”

Oh, _doesn’t he, though_. Quentin’s mouth on his cock is fucking heaven, fucking heaven, Eliot wants nothing more from life than _this._ He comes fingers tangled tight in Quentin’s lovely long hair, shaking apart.

Q crawls up into his arms, after, head fitting into the space between Eliot’s neck and shoulder. Eliot, for his part, feels pleasantly wrung out, ache in the best way. Quentin keeps nuzzling into him, tucked small and safe into his arms, like he’s determined to push back inside Eliot but with his whole body this time, and Eliot.

Eliot’s had a lot of sex. With a lot of people.

He’s never felt this close to anyone. Ever. 

His heart beats, terrified. He’s fucking terrified. 

“You’re right,” Q mumbles, and at Eliot’s inquisitive noise, frees himself from the place he’d been hiding. “I do like it.”

Eliot starts laughing, helpless, breathless, and Q starts laughing too. His beautiful fucking smile, Jesus. 

“Told you,” is all Eliot can say. 

__

Eliot’s been sent into the village to buy rope. 

They need a clothes line, Quentin had insisted that morning, they can’t keep spending all the time it takes to magically wash and dry their clothes. Especially as autumn gets a grip on the cottage, they’re going to want to be dressing warmer, which means more clothes to clean. It’s ridiculous to spend time doing it when they can let clothes dry while they work.

So Eliot spent two hours carefully crafting an item to trade. Fire was something of a specialty of his, and while he wasn’t a Pyromancer, he’d put a lot of study into this area. It was a useful thing to know how to do, and a good party trick. Boys and girls paid attention to you when you handed them a cocktail, and then made heat-less blue flames dance on the surface of it.

He maybe stole this particular idea from Harry Potter. Who fucking cares, no one in Fillory knows Harry Potter.

So he’s got a jar of heatless blue flames tucked into his pack, and a mission.

The little trading post in the village never has anything particularly fancy, in the way of offerings, but it’s well stocked for the necessities of daily life. Eliot likes the woman who runs it, a no-nonsense widow named Malis, who still calls him “quester” even after a year and half. She’s always happy to trade with them, though, or point them towards someone who can swap labor for whatever they need. 

She inspects the jar of blue flames curiously, and then gives him an assessing look. “What good is fire that’s not hot?”

“It’s bright, and won’t burn a house down,” Eliot shrugs, then leans in conspiratorially. “Come on, I know you know someone with a house full of babies would appreciate the peace of mind.”

“What do you know of babies, Quester? You and your boy tucked up in that cottage, not a bairn in sight.”

Eliot’s heart does something funny and complicated, but he just shrugs, dismissive. “I had life before this quest, you know.” He pointedly fingers the wedding ring he still wears, thinking of Fen and the daughter they’d lost for the first time in... months. Fuck. 

Malis’s face changes, and she sets the jar on the table top. “This is acceptable trade, Child of Earth. What do you need?”

“Rope, some salt, and thread,” Eliot ticks off, reciting back the list Quentin had made him repeat like seven times. Which was rude, frankly, Eliot had only gone to the village and forgotten to get what he’d been sent for once. Maybe twice. Thinking of Q makes Eliot smile, and add “And any new books that have come through.”

“I’ve been holding a few for you,” Malis says knowingly. She produces two books, one with a blue cover about the size of a pulp novel, the other bound in oiled leather. Eliot picks up the blue one, thumbing through it while Malis collects the rest of his goods. His eyes catch one of the names in the book and he laughs out loud.

“Aye, I thought you’d like that one. It’s of Earth, as I reckon it. Strange book.”

“It’s perfect, Q’s gonna love it,” Eliot says with a grin, setting down the book which is very, very obviously a copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. “Thanks for saving it for us, Malis.”

She just hums, and sets some other items down on the table to pick from. For thread, he selects the darkest option, and then turns his attention to the coils of rope. Most are coarse and thick, the kind of rope he saw used all over the village, to tether horses or bind posts, heavy duty stuff. There’s another coil though, finer made and softer when he reaches out to touch it. It would work well enough for clothes line, not rough enough to damage fabric. But touching it, he can’t help but be reminded of other rope he’s held in his life, cotton and soft enough not to rub the skin on bound wrists raw...

“I’ll take this one,” he says, and really, really hopes he’s not blushing. 

Items loaded into his pack, Eliot detours briefly by the mill to trade a few precious coins for more flour, and starts on the road home. There’s not a lot to occupy his mind, on the walk, and it wanders to the rope tucked safely in his pack. He’d tied up a partner during sex a grand total of twice in his life, but he knew how to do it. Knew the kinds of knots to use so you could get someone out quick, if you needed to. He’d enjoy it, when he’d done it, but the weight of the responsibility had made him jittery both times, and he’d settled it in the “too kinky for me” bucket, in his head.

And yet... Q liked being held down. They’d talked about it, a little, like Eliot tried to do every time they did something that ramped up the power exchange _just a little more._ “You make me feel safe,” Quentin had said with a shrug, like life was _that simple_ , like everything between them could just be _that simple._

Responsibility, with Q, felt like an honor. 

Quentin’s up on the ladder next to the mosaic when Eliot steps past the ever-burning torches and into the clearing which makes up their little world. He waves to Eliot but whatever bit of the puzzle he’s looking at seems to have absorbed the majority of his attention, so Eliot leaves him to it. Heading into the cottage, he unloads the pack, putting away the thread and salt, smiling again as he pulls the books out. 

“I got you a present,” Eliot says, walking out onto partially completed pattern and dropping to sit on the tiles. 

“You’re blocking my view,” Q complains, but he’s smiling, and comes down off the ladder. He stops as he passes by to drop a kiss onto the top Eliot’s head, loud and ridiculous, and then continues on to pick up a little stack of white tiles. Eliot’s stomach squirms at the gesture, pleased and guilty and scared, at how casual it is. Quentin’s so fucking open with affection, so free with his soft fragile heart and Eliot– 

Eliot looks down at the wedding ring on his hand, and reminds himself of why they’re here. What they’re trying to accomplish. This isn’t a forever-home. It can’t be.

“Fine, I won’t give you your present,” Eliot bickers back, because that’s what they do. They bicker and joke and laugh and fuck. He watches Quentin’s smile bloom, as he looks up from where he’s laying white tiles.

“Is the present your dick? You can be honest with me.”

 _That’s already yours, baby_ he thinks, and doesn’t say, because that might be a bit much, even for him. “Mmm, nope. But you can unwrap that later if you want to.”

“I plan too,” Quentin teases, then gives Eliot and expectant look. “Well?”

Eliot grins, and hands over the little blue book. Watches the play of emotion across Quentin’s face as he opens it and flips through. The bloom of recognitions-surprise-delight on his face makes Eliot feel warm all over. _I just want you happy,_ he thinks, heartsore. _I want you this happy always._

“Oh my god, Eliot!” Quentin yells, delighted, and practically flings himself into Eliot’s arms. “Where did you find this?”

“Malis,” Eliot explains, holding Q tight _tight_ to his chest for a moment before letting him go. 

“This is amazing,” Quentin murmurs, pulling back to look at the little book in his hands like it’s made of pure gold. It’s nearly as precious, just a little piece of familiarity. 

“Read it to me later?” Eliot asks, and knows he sounds desperately fond, can’t help it. Quentin smiles, just a little thing, but it makes Eliot feel warm.

“Of course.”

Inspecting the rest of Eliot’s purchases later in the night, Quentin gives Eliot a skeptical look. “Malis gave you all this for the flames?”

“I might have guilt-tripped her. A little,” Eliot makes a face, wrinkling his nose dismissively. 

“This is why you do the trading. You’re way better at it,” Quentin points out, which was probably true. Quentin’s awkwardness did him no favors when it came to bartering. He picks up the rope, inspecting it, and Eliot squirms a little, mind returning to his earlier train of thought.

“I have an idea for that,” Eliot says, stuffing the sudden rise of nerves away in some hidden corner of his brain.

“Besides make a clothes line? Because that’s my idea for it,” Quentin asks, adorably confused, and Eliot laughs a little. 

“Besides that, yes.” He reaches out, and takes the rope from Quentin’s hands, then takes Quentin’s hands in his. Presses a kiss to one of his palms, because Q’s precious and trusting and _his._ (For now. For now, for now, for now.) Then he takes the rope and loops a simple figure 8 around his wrists, holding the ropes taut with his hand. No knot, nothing to secure it, but enough to communicate the idea. He looks up at Quentin, dear sweet Q, who’s sitting at their rickety table with his hair in a bun and a threadbare t-shirt, looking utterly startled and... excited?

Maybe excited. 

“That’s my idea,” Eliot says, because it’s the best he can do to articulate _please let me take you apart so I can kiss every piece of you._

“It’s an interesting idea,” Quentin gets out, high pitched and breathy. 

It makes Eliot smile, and he leans on the table, releasing the ropes. “Yeah?”

“I don’t– I’ve never done anything like that,” Quentin says, blushing, but he’s meeting Eliot’s eyes. Even six months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to do that. It makes Eliot feel proud, in some weird way. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Eliot answers, brushing his fingers tenderly against the inside of Q’s wrists, and opts for honesty. “I’ve done it a couple times. It ended up being a little overwhelming for me, last time. But I think I’d like to try again, with you.”

“Oh,” Quentin, mutters, and there’s a soft look in his eyes, warm and affectionate. Like he’s... touched, that Eliot trusts him. It’s a familiar feeling, reflected back at him. “Show me more? About what you’d do?”

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, but leans in to steal a soft kiss first, because this is. This is everything, right here. No one has ever accepted every single piece of Eliot the way Quentin does, and asked for more of the same. 

So he’s walking Q through some basic bondage knots, sitting at the table in their living space as the sun sets, because that’s his life now. Quentin’s attentive, at first, asking questions and giving Eliot feedback about positions and his comfort levels. It doesn’t last, though. Three sets of bindings, and Quentin’s eyes start going glassy. He’s getting quiet and open and pliant. 

Which. Fuck. Eliot was so right about this. Feeling a mix of vindication and excitement settle into his stomach, he pulls the release on the knots binding Quentin forearms together, sliding his hands up Q’s arms, rubbing them. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Q agrees, and shakes his head a little. “That’s– I don’t know. I feel a little drunk?”

“That can happen,” Eliot says carefully. “Good feeling or bad feeling?”

“Good feeling,” Quentin replies. The corner of his mouth crooks up in a half smile, and he’s tilting his face up, asking for a kiss. Eliot gives him one, soft and tender and brief. Quentin makes an unhappy noise when he pulls away, but Eliot cups his cheek and kisses his forehead before drawing back. 

“We need to eat,” he points out, and Quentin grumbles, but lets him go.

So they eat, autumn harvest vegetables and a crust of bread, and Eliot manages to persuade Quentin into reading to him a little. He’s obviously distracted, his eyes flicking towards the rope coiled innocently on the table. Eliot finds himself enjoying the build up, the longing in Q’s body, the way he’s listing into Eliot’s side like he’s caught in a gravitational pull. A little extended sexual tension never hurt anyone. 

After the fourth time Quentin loses his place on the page, Eliot takes pity on him. Leans in, presses a kiss to Quentin’s temple, then whispers. “Hey, why don’t you go like the candles in the bedroom?”

Quentin scrambles to his feet so quickly he nearly faceplants into the table. It’s so fucking endearing, Eliot is _hopeless._

The room is bathed in soft golden light by the time Eliot enters, the soft rope coiled in his hands. Quentin is in the process of lighting the last candle, the familiar tut completing in his fingers, and Eliot. Eliot is so drawn to him, he almost can’t breathe for it. He walks up, sliding his arms around Quentin’s chest, pulling him in close. Q leans back into him, tilting his head back to whisper, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Eliot returns, and kisses him, just because Quentin fits so perfectly in his arms. “Tell me to stop if this is too much, okay.”

“I promise,” Quentin says, seriously, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. He’s _excited,_ and Eliot’s stomach swoops. 

Stripping Q of his clothes and sliding the ropes around his wrists should have felt clinical. Eliot remembers it feeling that way last time, a cognitive disconnect between what he was doing and his body’s reaction to it. Only–

Only with Quentin, it didn’t feel clinical at all. Sliding ropes around sturdy wrist, feeling Quentin’s skin under his hands, was one of the single most erotic feelings of Eliot’s life. Quentin always tended to be happy to go where Eliot put him, but this was that amplified to ten-fold. Now he was bound there, wrists over his head, tied to a solid piece of metal in the window frame, utterly exposed. He looked helpless. He looked like he _loved it._

Eliot settles back where he’s been straddling Quentin’s hips, surveying his handiwork. Quentin meets his gaze, steady, unashamed, and he’s panting a little, already. Just from this. He’s _hard,_ just from this. So is Eliot.

“You look so _good_ , baby. Laid out for me like a feast,” he murmurs, running his hands along Q’s exposed sides, firm pressure so as not to tickle. “I’m going to put my mouth all over you.”

“ _Eliot,_ ” Quentin moans, writhing a little, and Eliot can see the moment he tries to move his hands and can’t. Grinning, feeling a little wicked, a lot powerful, and very, very tender, Eliot sets to work. 

Quentin’s never really been all that good at staying still and letting Eliot explore. He gets too trapped in his own head if he’s not actively _doing_ something, and Eliot gets that. He makes an active effort to get Q out of his head while they’re fucking. Quentin is not caught in his head right now, though, which means Eliot gets to _play._ Gets to touch and taste _everything,_ the sweet curve of his inner arm, the vulnerable expanse of his throat, his pretty pink pebbled nipples. Quentin’s a open wire, responsive and eager, shuddering as Eliot kisses his way down Q’s body.

He makes sure Quentin’s eyes are locked on him before he takes Q’s cock in his mouth. The _sound_ Q makes, it’s spine-meltingly hot, and Eliot can _feel_ him struggling against the bonds as Eliot begins working him over.

“ _El_ , fuck, please,” Quentin pants, and Eliot pulls off, rubs his hand soothingly across Q’s heaving stomach. 

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, and watches the way Q’s eyes roll shut briefly at the praise. Loves this, _Eliot loves this._ “Can you keep taking what I give you?”

“Yes.” 

He looks stunned, blissed out, but also determined. Eliot smiles, so fucking _proud_ , and goes back down. Works Q over until he’s shaking and writhing, until there’s no way he can hold it together anymore. Then he slides all the way down, relaxing his jaw, relaxing his throat, and that’s it. Quentin’s _gone._

Eliot’s own need crashes back into him in a sudden wave. What had been a distant, separate awareness of his own arousal crests into want so bright, he can barely breathe through it. Scrambling up, he’s taking Q’s lovely mouth in hungry kiss, taking, taking, _taking._

Quentin, lovingly, gives.

Eliot comes against his hip, helpless, graceless, and it feels like all of his nerve-ends have turned into sparklers. He gives himself all of 30 seconds to enjoy it, then he’s dragging his clumsy limbs up, tugging the quick release so all of the ropes holding Q bound unspool in a heartbeat. 

A soft noise, of pain or discomfort, falls from Q’s lips as his arms come loose. Eliot’s heart breaks a little, and he moves to help Q sit up. Stretch out his arms. Eliot rubs his neck, his back, presses a helpless, grateful kiss to the dark ink of his tattoo. Quentin, adorably, looks high as a fucking kite. Eliot would laugh, but. But, but, but.

“Come here,” he murmurs, and gets Quentin tucked into his arms, gets their quilt wrapped around them. Gets his mouth on Q’s, to kiss him as he comes down. Fuck, Q likes being kissed so much. Eliot could maybe do it forever. 

Q starts to squirm a little, and Eliot pulls back, meeting bright, if sleepy, eyes. He looks happy. Fuck, he looks so happy. When was the last time Quentin looked this happy? 

“How do you keep giving me things I don't even know to ask for?” Quentin asks, stretching luxuriously and settling to nuzzle Eliot's throat. He kisses it, softly, and Eliot shivers. 

_I would give you anything,_ he thinks, and his heart hurts, it hurts, it's so full it might burst. _I want to give you everything, I love you so much._

Oh.

Oh. Fuck. _I'm in love with him_ , Eliot relizes, and he’s suddenly so dizingly terrified his stomach hurts. 

Something must change in his posture, the way he’s holding himself, because Quentin makes a worried noise. “El?” Q asks, concerned, pushing up to his elbow just a little. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, baby, it's fine,” Eliot lies on autopilot, sliding his hand into Quentin's hair to pet him, guide him back to Eliot's chest. Q looks skeptical, but let's himself be moved. 

“If it was too much for you, we don't have to do it again,” Quentin murmurs, rubbing his cheek against Eliot's collarbone. His stubble scratches Eliot's skin and he let's it ground him, lets it quiet his racing mind.

“I loved it, baby,” he says honestly, and tucks his nose into Q hair. He smells so warm and familiar, like home. _Like home._ Eliot's an idiot. 

He can do this. He can love Q now and soak up every wonderful moment of it, of this quest and the quiet little life they're building. He can love Q now, and let him go later when the time comes. Even a year of loving like this is more than Eliot ever thought he'd have. _Nothing in my life works_ , he'd told Margo on the night he'd married Fen, and it had been true. 

_I will love you, and I will let you go,_ Eliot thinks pressing a desperate kiss to Q's hair. _Because you are the one thing in my life that works._

“Q,” he breathes out, overwhelmed, helpless. 

But Quentin’s already asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come hang out with me anywhere, I’m portraitofemmy most places I have a presence. I’m most active on [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) though.


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